Gospel Story Finder

Randol lived in Bolivia. He loved going to school, and he took good care of his schoolbooks. His favorite book had a yellow cover and interesting drawings.
One day Randol could not find his yellow book. His mom and dad helped him look, but they still could not find it.
Randol was very sad. “Let’s pray,” Randol’s father said. “We’ll ask Heavenly Father to help us.”
After the prayer, Randol’s father had an idea.“Let’s talk to your uncle,” he said. “Maybe his children used the same book and they will let you borrow it.”
“This will be the answer to our prayer,” Randol thought.
Randol’s family went to his uncle’s store. They asked him about the yellow book. Uncle said his children had never used that book.
Now Randol was confused. Wasn’t Heavenly Father going to answer their prayer?
Just then, some men came into Uncle’s store selling books. They had the book with a yellow cover!
Randol’s father bought the book. Randol thanked Heavenly Father for answering his prayer.

My wife, Brenda, and I have had the privilege of living in foreign lands for more than eleven years, including London, Tokyo and Hong Kong. While living in Tokyo we came to know Ted and Ramona Price. Brenda was particularly drawn to them, as her mother was a Price and thought they might be distant cousins.

Brother Price was born in 1925 in Idaho and, when he was only nine, lost his father to a mining accident. His family struggled and in 1943, at age seventeen, Ted joined the Marine Corp. He was immediately thrown into several of the most bloody and intense battles in the Pacific theater of World War II. He fought through Tarawa, Saipan and was severely wounded on Tinian Island in the Marianas.

He returned home, a decorated war veteran, and put in his papers to go on a mission. To his shock and dismay, he was called to be one of the first nine missionaries assigned to Japan after the war. Bitterness from his war experiences resulted in his rejection of the mission call. Put simply, he hated the Japanese.

However, as with Jonah in the Bible, God was not to be denied. He had a reason for having Ted go to Japan and it went far beyond the goal of proselyting, the bigger purpose was to change Ted’s bitter heart.

He was called to meet with an Apostle who admonished him, though perhaps with gentle words, that God wanted him to go to Japan and, as he put it, “learn to love those people.”

That’s exactly what he did. Through his service he came away with a deep and life-long love for the Japanese people. In 1976, he returned to Japan with Ramona to be the Tokyo Mission President.

In 1987, when we came to know them, he was again serving as Mission President of the Tokyo Missionary Training Center. Subsequently, they again served in the Tokyo Temple Presidency. They also served in the Manila, Philippines temple and in New Zealand.

Ted died two years ago at age eighty-four. Only God knows whose “calling and election” is sure, but I’d being willing to bet that Ted is among the select number.

Often the price paid for membership in the Church was great. Jesucita Mera de Monroy was a widow and mother of four children. In 1902, after the death of her husband, she moved to the town of San Marcos in central Mexico, where she worked in a governmental position and operated a small grocery store. In March of 1913 Elders W. Ernest Young and Willard Huish visited San Marcos to conduct a funeral service for the only member in the town, Jesús Sanchez. After the funeral Señora Monroy approached the missionaries and asked them to come to her home and teach her family the gospel. After close to three months of studying, she and several members of her family, including her adult son Rafael, were baptized. This family became stalwarts in the Church, and they were influential in the development of a strong branch in the region.

Mexico was then in the midst of a civil war in which its citizenry, including members of the Church, often became innocent victims of violence. Two months after the baptism of the Monroy family, the American missionaries left Mexico because of concern for their safety. The members were left on their own. Rafael was put in charge of the small San Marcos branch. Unfortunately, in July 1915, because of a misunderstanding concerning his political activity, Rafael Monroy; Vicente Morales, his first counselor in the branch; and three of Jesucita’s daughters—Natalina, Jovita, and Guadalupe—were imprisoned by one of the revolutionary groups in the region. Their religious affiliation with the Church played a part in their arrest.

Jesucita was frantic as she tried to satisfy the demands of the leaders of the group and convince them that her children were innocent of any crime. After two days of interrogation and torture, Rafael Monroy and Vicente Morales were executed by a firing squad. Jesucita had the terrible and lonely task of recovering the bodies and organizing their burial, since most in the village, including members of the Church, distanced themselves from her and her family. Her trials continued, and she found it necessary to move from the town for a while. Her letter to Rey L. Pratt, then president of the Mexican Mission, shows her strength and faith in the gospel: “Our sorrows have been grievous, but our faith is strong, and we will never forsake this religion” (quoted in Walter Ernest Young, The Diary of W. Ernest Young [Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1973), 121). Her promise was kept, and she and most members of her family remained faithful to the Church. (See Mark L. Grover, “Execution in Mexico: The Deaths of Rafael Monroy and Vicente Morales,” BYU Studies 35, no. 3 (1995–96): 6–28.)

I have witnessed and been greatly impressed by the sacrifices many members endure to get to the temple. Let me share one such story.

In 1976, when we were living in Costa Rica, the mission president asked my husband to help organize the first trip from the mission to a temple. The Central America Mission then included Costa Rica, Panama, Nicaragua, and Honduras. The closest temple was the Mesa Arizona Temple. The trip required us to travel five days each way, crossing six borders. The financial sacrifice for most of those who went was great. They sold their television sets, bikes, skates, and anything else they could sell. We traveled in two uncomfortable buses day and night. Some of the members had used all their money to pay for the bus fare and had taken only crackers and margarine to eat on the way.

I have never forgotten the great outpouring of the Spirit we experienced during the three days we spent at the Mesa Temple. I was deeply touched as I watched family members embrace each other with tears streaming down their faces after being sealed for the eternities.

Twenty-four years later the temple in San José, Costa Rica, was dedicated. Among those present at the session I attended were many of the families who had gone on that first temple excursion. They had waited faithfully and worthily for this sacred moment. They all can now attend the temple often because a temple in Panama was recently dedicated, and a temple in Honduras has been announced.

Thanksgiving morning I awoke to the usual rattle of milk pans. Grabbing my shoes and stockings, I raced barefoot to the warmth of the kitchen stove. Papa was straining the milk. “Where’s Mama?” I asked.
“She coughed all night” he said, “so I told her to stay in bed and you’d get breakfast ready.” He set the pans of milk in the pantry and went out to tend the cows.
“Oh, no,” I wailed aloud, “Mama can’t be sick on Thanksgiving Day!”
Helplessly I regarded the old cookstove. In bright, shiny letters across the oven door was written FROM KALAMAZOO DIRECT TO YOU. Such good things had come from that oven, I remembered, especially at holidays. For the first time in my memory there had been no bustle of baking the day before Thanksgiving. Mama wasn’t up to it, and Grandma had gone to Moccasin to spend a few days with Uncle Fred and Aunt LaVern. She had said that the family was too big now for all of us to be together on Thanksgiving. To top that off, we got a sad little note from my two oldest sisters, Annie and Kate, who were away at school, saying they couldn’t find a way home from Cedar City.
Mildred, just older than I, was helping Sister Cripps. What a situation! There would be no plum pudding bobbing up and down in its little cotton sack in the boiling kettle, and there would be no row of pies cooling on the pantry shelf.
The fire crackled and steam spouted from the copper teakettle, reminding me that I had better stop feeling sorry for myself and get busy.
Absolutely the only thing I’d ever cooked was mush. I had had no reason to learn to cook, what with Grandma, Mama, and my three older sisters around. Mama had the gift of making something out of nothing, especially when company unexpectedly appeared. My sisters had all learned to cook because they often worked out for people, and then there was Grandma. She lived next door to us, but did her cooking on our stove. She used to run the Isom Hotel at Virgin during the oil boom, and she delighted in cooking for big crowds.
As I poured the boiling water into the mush pot and stirred in the cracked wheat, I thought of other Thanksgivings. Last year when Grandma was taking flaky crusted pies out of the oven with a towel, her thumb accidentally touched the hot tin pan and she dropped a currant pie upside down on the kitchen floor. Steaming red juice trickled across the clean linoleum, and I thought it was a disaster until Grandma said, “You youngsters can have that pie.” She wasn’t one to waste anything. I remember my aunts saying that Grandma was so saving that if a mosquito lit in the molasses, she’d lick its legs before turning it loose. Maybe so, but no pie ever tasted so good as the one she dropped.
Thanksgiving meant lots of relatives. Three years ago everybody in Hurricane had Thanksgiving dinner together in the little wooden meetinghouse before it was torn down. The grown-ups ate first because “children must learn their proper place and respect their elders.” It was one of the rare times that it snowed in Hurricane. While the grown-ups ate, we scraped enough snow together for a snowman; then it was our turn to eat. Politely we sat at the long, wonderful table. I had never seen so many kinds of scrumptious food in my whole life. And what fun it was to eat with playmates and cousins while even the men, wearing happy faces and big aprons, served us.
Stirring the mush smooth, I put on the lid. My little sisters were giggling in their room and singing “Over the River and Through the Woods.” That got to me. Slipping into my coat, I ran to the barn where Papa was pitching hay into the manger.
“Papa, aren’t we going to have any Thanksgiving?” I cried.
“I guess it’s up to you,” he replied, ramming the pitchfork into the hay and climbing down from the loft.
“Me!” I said aghast.
He patted my shoulder. “You’re almost twelve, aren’t you?”
“Eleven,” I corrected.
He took my hand and we walked to the house together. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll put these nice white beans Mama set to soak in this big kettle, like this. Then we’ll put in a piece of fresh pork.” Stepping outside, he brought in a flour sack of meat that had been hanging on the shady side of the house and cut off a hunk for the bean pot. “Now for a little salt, then the lid, and we’ll slide it on the back of the stove. You keep the fire going and the beans will be ready for dinner.”
“But Papa! It’s Thanksgiving! Are beans all we’ll have?”
“With plenty of brown bread and butter and fruit, nothing could be better.”
Grandma always said Papa was a very practical man, and I knew it was true.
Mama ate breakfast with us, then went back to bed. Papa went to fix the corral gate. My little sisters, Edith and LaPriel, did the dishes while I tidied up the house. I looked at the pictures of pilgrims and turkeys that they had colored with crayons and pasted in the front window. Of course we’d never had a turkey, because we didn’t raise them. We ate what we grew. Papa had butchered the pig and Mama had bottled sausage, but she hadn’t rendered out the lard yet.
Quietly I slipped into Mama’s room. Feeling my presence, she opened her eyes.
“Mama, I wish I knew how to make something special for dinner,” I said.
She patted my hand. “The first step to becoming a good cook is to want to. Run down to Aunt Mary’s house and borrow half a cup of lard and I’ll teach you how to make a cake with sugar in it.”
“Sugar!” I exclaimed. Usually we had molasses cakes.
I flew to Aunt Mary’s with my tin cup and she filled it with fresh, creamy white lard. Then I ran all the way home.
“You might want to write this down for the first time,” Mama said, “but in no time at all you’ll be cooking from memory.”
The good cooks I knew gloried in the fact that their recipes were in their heads. We didn’t even own a cookbook.
“We’ll start with two cups of flour.”
I wrote it down.
“Now remember this rule: For each cup of flour, you use one teaspoon of baking powder. Then add a good pinch of salt.”
“How much is a good pinch?”
“About half a teaspoon. You’ll get used to that. Sift these together. In a separate bowl put half as much sugar as flour. How much would that be?”
“One cup,” I replied.
“Now add half as much lard as sugar.”
“One-half cup lard,” I said out loud as I wrote.
“Cream these together. I’m sure you know how to do that because you’ve watched me. Now, since the chickens aren’t laying too well, we’ll use just one egg today. Another rule you might remember is to use the same amount of milk as sugar. This is basic,” she explained.
“From these simple rules you can make many kinds of cake. I’ll leave it to your imagination. You can add a teaspoon of lemon or vanilla extract or a teaspoon of nutmeg—whichever you like.” After explaining how to alternately mix in the flour and milk she said, “Now run along and have fun making your first cake.”
I kept popping back into her room with questions, but finally the cake was in the oven.
“If you’ve kept just enough fire to keep the beans bubbling gently, your cake should be done in half an hour,” she said.
Anxiously I watched the fire and the clock. An angel must have sat on my shoulder because the cake browned just right, springing back to my touch as Mama had said it should.
Remembering Grandma’s cake topping, I ran down to the cellar for a glass of plum jelly and spread it on the cake as it cooled. Cream on the pans of last night’s milk for tomorrow’s churning reminded me of what else Grandma would do if she were here. I ladled some into a bowl for whipping.
Down the cellar once more, I scanned the shining store of bottled fruit. Himalaya berries! Today we would open a two-quart bottle of them! Sweet pomegranates in a basket on the dirt floor caught my eye. Some of them were already splitting, exposing ruby red seeds. I selected the biggest one.
Edith and LaPriel had caught the excitement of the day. They kept the woodbox filled, put the best white cloth on the table in the living room, and even fixed a bouquet of pink chrysanthemums they had rooted out from under the yellow leaves beneath the cherry trees.
Papa came in and scrubbed up. Mama came downstairs and said she felt much better. The table with its flowers and the cut glass bowl of berries and the bread, butter, and beans looked like Thanksgiving. We bowed our heads and Papa thanked Heavenly Father for the bounties of the earth and for a couple of hundred other things; then he blessed the food. He had just barely said, “Amen,” when the brakes to Ether Wood’s freight truck squealed outside our front gate. Ether is the Good Samaritan of our town who always remembers students who are away from home.
Annie and Kate burst in through the front door at the very moment that Mildred opened the kitchen door, announcing that Sister Cripps didn’t need her anymore. My heart almost popped the buttons off my dress. I wanted to laugh and to cry. Everybody hugged everybody else. We put on three extra plates and, chattering like sparrows, passed the beans.
When it came time, I brought out the cake. Like jewels, pomegranate seeds sparkled from the whipped-cream topping. It looked so pretty everyone gasped.
“I made it myself. Mama told me how,” I explained.
Papa said it was fit for a king and Mama said it was perfect and everyone else said I should try one again soon. I looked at the happy faces of my family around the table.
“My goodness!” I exclaimed, “This isn’t a pitiful Thanksgiving after all!”

During my first few years in Young Women, I was at a stage in my life where everything seemed confusing and hard to deal with. I had lost hope in the dreams and goals I had for my future. My vision became clouded by the many temptations and pressures of the world. While I was going through these trials I knew that my best source of strength was the Lord.
Knowing this, I decided to make Personal Progress a top priority in my life. In doing so I have received many wonderful blessings and have come to understand that only through helping and serving others can we find true happiness.
I completed the Personal Progress program at age 14. I’m so grateful for the experiences I gained from putting Personal Progress first in my life. I encourage Young Women all over the world to work on Personal Progress. It is an inspired program from God.
The Personal Progress program has brought me closer to the Spirit, and I have received great comfort, peace, and assurance in times of need. I have gained a greater love for Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, and my testimony has grown stronger.

On my birthday one Sunday morning, my husband and I were getting ready for church when the phone rang. I answered, and the bishop said, “I know today is your birthday, but could you meet with me in my office in 30 minutes? I would like to talk with you.”
Curious, I hurried to church.
In his office, the bishop said to me, “Sister Cruz, I have a birthday present for you. The Lord is calling you to serve as Young Women president. Will you accept this calling?” I felt overwhelmed, but I accepted the calling. I was sustained and set apart that day.
When I returned home after church, I sat on my bed. The weight of responsibility hit me. I cried and felt inadequate for the work. What a responsibility to guide those young women! I was baptized when I was 22 and had never attended Young Women activities before. How could I be Young Women president?
I did the only thing I knew to do: I knelt and asked Heavenly Father for guidance in this new calling. At that moment I had an experience I will never forget. As I visualized each young woman, I understood that each was a daughter of Heavenly Father. Each needed a president who loved her and could help her understand that God loved her. In my mind I saw the names of all the less-active young women (whom I had never met), and I understood that they were also daughters of Heavenly Father and needed my attention. I felt each one’s potential.
The following months were not easy. I worked hard to get to know each young woman and to understand her needs. Together with the active young women, our presidency helped those who had been less active return to activity. I saw the hand of the Lord at work in many ways.
When I was released from my calling, I worried that perhaps I could have done more. Upon arriving home, I knelt and asked Heavenly Father if my service had been acceptable. I received a sweet feeling that He was pleased.
I thought back on that birthday when I could have turned down the calling because of all my other responsibilities. But I am the one who would have lost most by not accepting the calling. I would have lost the opportunity to learn humility, gain understanding, develop patience, and become an instrument in the Lord’s hands. But mostly I would have failed the Lord in the confidence He placed in me, and I would have failed to learn that the opportunity to serve is a gift.

James Lee, 18, and his younger brother Christopher sat near the front of the chapel furiously taking notes. They live in Spokane, Washington, and though they knew they were living in an area of high employment, both of them needed summer jobs.
Luckily for the Lees and hundreds of other young Latter-day Saints like them, the local stake leaders with the help of Brother Ronald Buchanan, manager of the Church’s Spokane Employment Center, had organized a one-day career fair for all of the young people in the Spokane area.
The career fair started with talks from some of the local leaders about general gospel principles and how they relate to the work ethic. As the day progressed the information became much more specific, and the participants learned about developing careers, preparing resumes, creative job searching, and interviewing.
“A good resume is probably the most effective job hunting tool for a young person,” said Bill Steen, a professional teacher and consultant on preparing resumes. “Of course a resume is needed for professional, career-oriented job seekers, but very few young people use them. So when you do, it really sets you apart from the rest of the job-hunting crowd.
“Do not depend on an application and then wait at home by the phone for someone to call,” he continued, “because it rarely happens. Few people understand what most job application forms are really designed to accomplish. They are designed by an employer to reveal as many weaknesses as possible and eliminate you from the competition for that job. And this is the tool that most of us use to try to get a job—a tool that is designed to screen us out.”
The young people learned some fascinating ways to find job openings and even to create them if they are not there to begin with. John Munson, 14, is working on the details for his own summer business. He is gong to specialize in selling fresh hot sausages (either on a bun or a stick) to the vacationers at Lake Coeur d’ Alene. John is going to hire two kids to operate other stands which he also owns. He is working on the forms for his health department clearance and business license and has bids from suppliers for his sausages.
A Washington State employment placement specialist, Sister Carole Hankal gave a delightful workshop on the creative job search. “Once you have prepared a good resume, you might feel it’s the best resume in the world. You should remember that for every person hired there are 1,470 resumes sent out. So the resume isn’t going to get the job for you. It is important, but it works better if it is combined with a personal contact. It is just like missionary work: when a person is referred to the missionaries by a close friend or relative, the chances of his being baptized are much greater than if he was tracted out by the missionaries. If you have a family friend or relative that has a business and hires people, don’t abuse the situation. Don’t go up to Uncle Harry and say, ‘Hey, do you know of any job openings?’ This is not what you want to do. However, if your Uncle Dan works in the bank personnel department and you would like a job in a bank you might say, ‘Hello, Uncle Dan, this is Karen. I just graduated from high school, got straight A’s in mathematics and A’s in English, and I type 60 words a minute with very few errors. I would really love to work in the banking institution. Do you know of any openings or anyone who might be aware of some openings and would you mind introducing me to some of your associates?’”
After Sister Hankal gave the above example, she explained that a good percentage of jobs are filled by those who have some kind of personal contact with the employer. She added, “Don’t be discouraged if you feel you have done everything right and still don’t get a job. Be prepared for up to ten interviews. It often takes ten or more in order for you to be successful in getting that job that is just right for you.”
It was now late afternoon, and the young people had sat about as long as they could absorbing the career information. When their appetites for food began to overshadow their appetites for summer work, dozens of Relief Society sisters and their husbands appeared out of nowhere and promptly began serving hundreds of delicious box lunches that had been prepared earlier for the entire group.
The high point of the career fair for most of the young people was the next two-hour block when they were able to talk to individual career specialists. Seventy-eight specialists had set up booths in the cultural hall while the young people were eating. There were representatives from education, health services, community services, government and military, construction, communications, retailing, sales, business, engineering, and a host of other fields of employment. Each representative had handouts giving specific information about the educational requirements, the expected salary ranges, and pros and cons of the job.
There were also 11 colleges and universities represented in classrooms near the cultural hall. Each representative was delighted to talk to the young people about entrance requirements, costs, and financial aids.
The fair was carefully organized to accomplish several different objectives. “We wanted to (1) prepare our youth so they would be the best prepared to enter both the summer and permanent job markets and be the first to apply when an opportunity arises; (2) help them to identify career areas they would like to work in and to match their summer employment with their career goals; (3) create the opportunity for them to visit with more than 75 career specialists; and (4) give them the chance to talk to representatives from local colleges as well as BYU and Ricks,” said Brother Buchanan.
“It took us six months to plan and develop the fair. One hundred and fifty people helped put all the details together. I know that Sister Carole Krohn, chairman of the career specialists, made 300 telephone calls herself. But we wanted the youth to be taught about self-reliance and self-sufficiency. What these young people have learned here today should improve their income potential, job satisfaction, self-esteem, and their ability to serve in the Church,” he added.
James and Christopher left the career fair with new confidence in themselves and determination to use the knowledge they had gained to get their summer jobs.
James got the job he wanted working at a grocery store in Deer Park, Washington. He first talked to the manager, and then he followed up by submitting an application. The manager noted that James would not work on Sunday and so he did not hire him. Yet James kept in touch with the store, and after a few days he was asked to work for two days on a trial basis. The owner of the store interviewed James and asked him why he would not work on Sunday. James told him it was part of the teachings of his church and he had made a personal commitment to try to keep the Sabbath holy. The owner was impressed, and James was hired—to work every day but Sunday.
Christopher found his job using another technique he learned in the workshops at the fair. He applied for a job, but at the time there were no openings. When he followed up a few days later he said, “I know that it costs you something to train new employees. I will volunteer to come in and learn whatever you would like me to learn on my own time and then if you think I can do the job to your satisfaction I will be trained and ready to go to work when you have an opening.” This initiative impressed his employer enough that he interviewed him and hired him on the spot. Although the restaurant is open on Sunday, Christopher’s employer respects his beliefs and has not required that he come in and work on that day.
Both of the Lee boys felt they got the jobs they wanted because of what they learned at the career fair, including proper dress for a job interview, cultivating qualities that an employer would look for like grammar and manners, what to expect in applying for a job, and the kinds of questions an employer would hope a job applicant would ask to show that he is really interested in working for him.
James and Christopher Lee are only two out of hundreds of success stories from those who attended the career fair. More than half of the 850 young people who attended got jobs after the fair. Others who couldn’t get work or didn’t want to work for someone else have started their own businesses, and still others actually are involved in their long-range careers, thanks to the stake leaders and the Church Employment System, who sponsored the 1984 Spokane Career Fair.

When the time came for me to serve a mission, I felt a desire to bless the people in neighboring Uganda with the gospel, but I also wanted to teach the people in Zimbabwe, home of the missionary who had baptized me.
I prayed, but in my heart, I saw no way I could serve in two countries located far apart. Soon, I received my call to Zimbabwe, but while I was in the missionary training center in Johannesburg, South Africa, my visa was delayed. I was redirected to Uganda, where I served for eight months before receiving visa clearance for Zimbabwe.
“The Lord has His mysterious ways,” I thought to myself.

A great example in my life of unselfish service is Sister Victoria Antonietti. Victoria was one of the Primary teachers in my branch while I was growing up in Argentina. Each Tuesday afternoon, when we gathered for Primary, she brought us a chocolate cake. Everyone loved the cake—well, everyone except me. I hated chocolate cake! And even though she would try to share the cake with me, I always turned down her offer.
One day after she had shared the chocolate cake with the rest of the children, I asked her, “Why don’t you bring a different flavor—like orange or vanilla?”
After laughing a little, she asked me, “Why don’t you try a little piece? This cake is made with a special ingredient, and I promise that if you try it, you will like it!”
I looked around, and to my surprise, everyone seemed to be enjoying the cake. I agreed to give it a try. Can you guess what happened? I liked it! That was the very first time I had enjoyed a chocolate cake.
It wasn’t until many years later that I found out what the secret ingredient was in Sister Antonietti’s chocolate cake. My children and I visited my mother each week. On one of these visits, Mom and I were enjoying a slice of chocolate cake, and I related to her how I came to like the cake for the very first time. Then she enlightened me with the rest of the story.
“You see, Cris,” my mom said, “Victoria and her family didn’t have a lot of resources, and each week she had to choose between paying for the bus to take her and her four children to Primary or buying the ingredients to make the chocolate cake for her Primary class. She always chose the chocolate cake over the bus, and she and her children walked more than two miles [3 km], each way, regardless of the weather.”
That day I had a better appreciation for her chocolate cake. More important, I learned that the secret ingredient in Victoria’s cake was the love she had for those she served and her unselfish sacrifice in our behalf.

I have a very strong testimony of example. The article “In Football or in Life” (November) touched me deeply because of an experience we had a short time ago with a very special father and his sons whom we were teaching. The father said they had been jealous of their neighbors because of the happiness these neighbors had in their home. He concluded that it had to be a result of their religion because they truly live it. He wanted some of that true joy for his own family. I also think of my parents, who are the greatest examples to me. They always taught me true principles and raised me in the way that would please the Lord. They truly show charity (the pure love of Christ) in their everyday lives. My heart is full of love for my Father and mother in heaven, and my eldest brother Jesus Christ, and with gratitude for the love they have given the world. Our brothers and sisters all around the world need the gospel so much, and I’m thankful for the Church leaders who place their time and lives on the altar so that the world may receive the word of our Lord. I love all God’s children and am so thankful for the opportunity to grow by serving them.
Elder John Kevin YoungCalifornia Ventura Mission

The sun shone warmly on an outrigger canoe as a father and son dipped their paddles into the smooth water. Mapa, the boy, stared into the clear depths, not conscious of the beauty there or of the beautiful morning around them. Somewhere deep inside he hurt, like a leg hurts when the water is too cold for swimming and a boy goes swimming anyway. But the ache was even worse whenever he looked down at his little Puaka Tea asleep near his bare feet—all curled up and scrubbed clean and pink. She’s not very big yet, he thought sadly. How he wished he could keep her until she was grown and the mother of many little pigs. But she must be sold at the marketplace, because it would soon be time for school and there was not enough money to buy the uniforms and sandals all Tongan students wear.
Father had planned on cash from his crops, but the hurricane winds had destroyed most of them this year. Then Mother had tried to help by weaving baskets and mats and making tapa cloth to be sold at the market. Little brother Sione had sent his two best chickens in a cage to be sold. Their legs tied together, they seemed quite content just to be blinking out at the world.
The whole family was anxious to help Mapa get ready for school. And when he thought about their concern for him, a good feeling began to push away some of the hurt about having to sell Puaka.
“Rest awhile, Mapa,” Father advised, as the canoe slipped gracefully across the water. “There will be much to see and do when we reach Tongatapu Island.”
“Have I ever been there?”
“When you were very small.”
Mapa leaned back against the boat. “I want to go to a store and buy something for Mother and Sione,” he said.
Mapa reached inside his vala (dressy skirt-like garment) to make sure his twenty-seniti (cent) coin was still there. Nestled there also was something else. It was hard and round. Mapa frowned. He had forgotten to leave his newfound treasure home. He and Sione had been playing with it just before Father called him to the boat. It was a different color from the tui tui nuts the boys usually played with. He had found it that morning inside a shellfish. It was silvery white and lustrous.
The gentle rocking of the boat lulled the boy to sleep. He saw himself running with Puaka Tea at his heels. His bare legs, bronzed by the sun, were strong and fast. The wind blew warm on his smiling brown face. The pig followed him wherever he went, through the tall grass, along the sand on the beach, even into the shallow water. He heard her squealing.
Mapa opened his eyes. Puaka Tea was awake and squealing loudly. The boat trembled and lurched sideways.
“Father! What is happening?” Mapa shouted.
The chickens clucked and banged their beaks against the side of the cage.
“Hold on, son!”
Another plunge. The frightened pig scampered back and forth in the bottom of the canoe. Mapa reached for her just as the boat tipped again. Puaka Tea tumbled into the ocean, her feet flailing as she went under.
“Oh, no!” Mapa cried, as he jumped in after her. Then up the pig came, floundering near an overturned basket. He grabbed the animal and pulled her with him to the boat. Still squealing, Puaka Tea went up over the side to safety.
“What happened?” Mapa asked as soon as he had pulled himself inside the canoe.
“Well, I think a young whale wanted to visit us. Thank goodness, I was able to nudge it away. This serves for more than just rowing!” Father declared, holding up a long paddle. Mapa and Father laughed together, and the animals settled themselves.
Mapa saw a faint line on the far horizon as he shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand. Soon a shoreline began to take shape. Anticipation brought a smile to his face. He could see the same expression reflected in his father’s dark eyes. “We will soon be there, son. Look, there is the king’s palace.”
Stately Norfolk pines towered above tall white walls. The red roof matched the colorful hibiscus and poinsettia flowers blooming in the courtyard.
“Red and white, the colors of the kingdom,” Mapa said softly. “I have never seen anything so magnificent. Look, there is a big ship in the harbor. Where do you think it came from?”
Father’s eyes studied it. “From Australia, I think.”
Soon the outrigger was securely tied to the dock and, with the pig pattering along beside them, they carried their wares to market. Mapa had never seen so many people. He tied Puaka Tea to a pole and she began to root around contentedly in the soft ground.
“May I go to a store now?” Mapa asked.
Father knew the boy wanted to be away when someone came to buy the pig. “Yes, but be careful.”
Mapa’s heart was heavy. “Good-bye, my little Puaka Tea,” he whispered, and turned and hurried across the street.
The store seemed very big, for Mapa was used to only the small thatched huts of the village. This building was made of wood and filled to capacity with all kinds of supplies. The pungent odor of spice cake and new leather filled the room. Three small children at the counter were laughing and playing with their new toys. The trinkets from New Zealand, Japan, and India fascinated Mapa most. He was so engrossed, his curly head bent over the shelf, that he did not notice a lady customer come into the store.
Finally he reached into the folds of his vala for the coin, and out fell the stone. Clattering to the floor, it rolled across the boards almost to the lady’s feet.
“Malo-e-lelei (Hello),” she greeted him. Her voice sounded strange.
Mapa’s eyes opened wide. The voice was not nearly as strange as the lady herself. Her skin was very white, and her eyes were as blue as the horizon where the ocean meets the sky. Her hair was golden like a sun blossom.
“Malo-e-lelei,” he answered and picked up his treasure.
The woman smiled and came closer to him. “May I see it?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’m,” he replied and handed it to her.
“It is lovely.” She studied it closely. “I would very much like to buy it. Will you sell it to me?”
Mapa thought for a moment. I wonder why this lady wants it? Perhaps I can find another one.
“Yes, you may buy it.”
He was astonished at the many slips of paper pa’anga (dollars) the lady placed in his hand.
“Malo’aupito (thank you very much),” he said.
Mapa ran back to the marketplace. His father would be surprised, for his son held more money in his hand than anyone would pay for baskets or chickens or a little pig. He could keep Puaka Tea!
“Father! Father!” Oh, if only I’m in time!
A tall, neatly dressed man stood by his father, holding onto the rope tied around Puaka Tea’s leg.
“What is it, Mapa? What has happened?”
“Do not sell my pig! I have money. It is enough. See, here!”
Father’s mouth opened in disbelief. “But where did you get it?”
“I sold a stone I found to a lady from the ship. I can keep Puaka Tea and still buy things for school.”
“That was not an ordinary stone, son. It must have been a pearl! I am happy for your good fortune,” Father said.
The tall man, understanding, left in search of another pig.
Mapa bent down and untied Puaka Tea, who gave a happy little squeal.

President Eyring gave a devotional talk here at Brigham Young University that had a powerful effect on me. He told of a young man who needed to repent and had come to him when President Eyring was a bishop. After a lengthy time, Bishop Eyring interviewed him and found him worthy to hold a temple recommend. But the young man was going to be married in the temple to a young lady who was sweet and clean, and he needed to know if his sins had been remitted—if he had forgiveness from the Lord. How could he get that revelation?
Bishop Eyring said it was a good question and that he needed some time, so the young man gave him a deadline—less than two weeks.
During those two weeks Bishop Eyring went to a social function that then Elder Spencer W. Kimball also attended. Elder Kimball found Bishop Eyring and said, “Hal, I understand that you are now a bishop. Do you have anything you would like to ask me?”
President Eyring continued:
I said that I did, but I didn’t think that was the place to talk about it. He thought it was. It was an outdoor party. My memory is that we went behind a shrub and there had our interview. Without breaking confidences . . . , I outlined the concerns and the question of this young man. . . . Then I asked Elder Kimball, “How can he get that revelation? How can he know whether his sins are remitted?”
I thought Elder Kimball would talk to me about fasting or prayer or listening for the still small voice. But he surprised me. Instead he said, “Tell me something about the young man.”
I said, “What would you like to know?”
And then he began a series of the most simple questions. Some of the ones I remember were:
“Does he come to his priesthood meetings?”
I said, after a moment of thought, “Yes.”
“Does he come early?”
“Yes.”
“Does he sit down front?”
I thought for a moment and then realized, to my amazement, that he did.
“Does he home teach?”
“Yes.”
“Does he go early in the month?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Does he go more than once?”
“Yes.”
I can’t remember the other questions. But they were all like that—little things, simple acts of obedience, of submission. And for each question I was surprised that my answer was always yes. Yes, he wasn’t just at all his meetings: he was early; he was smiling; he was there not only with his whole heart, but with the broken heart of a little child, as he was every time the Lord asked anything of him. And after I had said yes to each of his questions, Elder Kimball looked at me, paused, and then very quietly said, “There is your revelation.”

Some years ago we took a family trip to Aotearoa New Zealand the place of my birth so that our children would have an opportunity to visit family, learn more about part of their cultural background and heritage, and enjoy what that beautiful country has to offer. Our plans were to drive down one side of the North Island, take a ferry, which transports both passengers and vehicles, across to the south island and then return northward driving up the opposite coast. We anticipated driving over a thousand miles to visit family and various historical and tourist sites.
A family member suggested we rent a van from an acquaintance who owned a local car rental company rather than using a national company so we could save money. We took that suggestion. The journey started off well but after our first rest stop we noticed the ignition was a bit sluggish but we didn't think too much of it and carried on our way. The next morning however, we went to start the van but all it did was produce unusual loud noises. My husband Chris tried the ignition several times, and after cleaning the spark plugs, the van started. We were about eight hours away from our starting point. I thought to myself, "How could someone rent a vehicle without checking to make sure it was in top condition?" I proposed to my husband that we leave the van where it was, inform the owner that it had problems and promptly make arrangements to use a national rental company for the rest of our journey. My husband had concerns about leaving the vehicle. From his perspective, this small business owner would incur a great deal of expense retrieving his vehicle, which was located hundreds of miles away from Hamilton, our point of departure. In my mind I was thinking, "How is that my problem?" I concocted several rationalizations that easily justified my perspective, but my husband was persuasive and had our family commit to get the vehicle back to its owner. I wish I could tell you that the vehicle worked wonderfully after that, but it didn't. One morning we went to use the van and discovered that it had a hole in the tire. To make matters worse, there wasn't a jack in the trunk that would allow us to raise the van off the ground so we could change the tire. Then a little later into the journey, we were pulled over by a highway patrol officer. Apparently, the van did not have a required sticker on the windshield, which would indicate the vehicle's use of diesel gas. According to the officer, these vehicles needed to pay a special road toll and we were to obtain the sticker immediately. I'm sure I rolled my eyes at this news, as this new setback would require that we detour to the nearest town, find the appropriate office, and pay over a hundred dollars for the sticker. And we were still on the front end of our journey! I felt like we were on a reality television show, in which nothing would go our way.

An interesting thing happened when we decided to heed Chris' earlier counsel; we were going to make the best of our situation and help the owner get his van back. By changing our attitude we became open to unintended experiences that were interesting and fun because we chose to see them as such. When we looked for ways to enjoy ourselves we started to see our situation for the pluses rather than the minuses, which led us to acknowledge our gratitude for the small things like being together, enjoying each other's company, seeing our youngest son's wonderment while standing on a glacier in the middle of summer, the fact that it didn't rain while we changed the tire, the hilarious road-trip games, and the little promptings from the Lord. We met interesting people who were kind and helpful to us we ate delicious food at quaint out-of-the way cafe, and saw some sights we wouldn't have seen if we didn't have van troubles. Our family adventure brought us closer to the Lord because at times, He was the only one we could turn to. In one instance, we were at the front of the line of one hundred vehicles ready to drive off the inter-island ferry but we couldn't get the van started. Chris tried turning the ignition over and over (we counted exactly twenty-six times). All the while our family both individually and collectively pled with the Lord to help the vehicle work so we wouldn't hold up hundreds of fellow travelers who were anxious to disembark.

Throughout the entire vacation nothing changed about the vehicle, however, what did change was our family's attitude about our situation. We became reliant on the Lord every single time we got into the van. We prayed over it like it was an ill family member. My husband is a person with a great attitude who looks for the good in others and reaches out to help them. He knew that taking the responsibility for returning the van wouldn't be easy, but he was willing to put forth effort to do it because he felt it was right. His attitude was infectious and it opened us up for a different journey, which resulted in many unintended blessings and great memories.

Brothers and sisters a good attitude makes a difference in our lives and has the power to influence and uplift others. Winston Churchill said, "Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference." The Late Elder Marvin J. Aston of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said back in 1974, ("Who's Losing?." Ensign, Nov 1974, 41) "The attitude with which we approach each day controls the outcome... Positive personal attitude will insist that we deliver our best, even though less might seem adequate for the moment. Proper attitude demands we be realistic: even tough with ourselves and self-disciplining." This was my experience with what I thought was the worst rental van on the face of the Earth. Instead of this trip being known as "the worst family vacation ever," we fondly refer to it as "our praying vacation."

The month of December found me in the mission field, living my childhood dream. I had been serving in Siberia for six months, and though I wasn’t fluent in the language and had not baptized thousands, my time in Russia had been the happiest of my life.
Christmas had always been my favorite time of the year because of the chance to be with family, visit Temple Square, decorate the tree, and enjoy all of the other traditions that had developed over time. But this year all those memories I treasured were in the past, and my family was literally on the other side of the world. I tried to be positive, realizing I had the opportunity to make this the best Christmas ever. I thought and prayed about how I could make the most of this holiday season. I wanted to draw closer to Christ and serve those around me. But day after day, as I pondered how to make Christmas special, the inspiration I sought wouldn’t come.
I was frustrated with my failure to make the holiday unique. I finally decided to continue serving the Lord as I had since the beginning of my mission, knowing that simply serving Him with all my heart, might, mind, and strength would be the best way to observe Christmas.
On Christmas Eve we went with the branch president to give an older woman a blessing. I remember feeling that I was ministering in behalf of the Savior for one of Heavenly Father’s children in need. After coming home we read the account of the Savior’s birth in the Bible and reverently sang “Silent Night.”
Unlike my childhood years, I had no problem falling asleep. In the morning we arose, turned on Christmas music, and took turns opening the packages we had received from family at home and from our friends in Russia. After a while, torn wrapping paper covered the floor, and we only had a few presents left. I decided to open the nicely wrapped gift that Ella had given me two days earlier. She had been an investigator for the last few months and was slowly progressing toward baptism. Her circumstances led us to hope she would be baptized in February or March.
Ella was an English teacher with a wonderful family, and every week we looked forward to our discussions with her. We had become good friends, and I wanted her to have the blessings of the gospel in her life.
As I opened the package, I found a book of sonnets of a famous writer that I’d told her I wanted to buy. Opening the book I found a small note that read, “I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.” In the postscript, she had written, “I want you to baptize me in January.”
I screamed for joy loud enough to wake the neighbors. But following the initial excitement I started crying. The joy I felt is impossible to describe. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. This Christmas was a special one. I had been a part in helping someone else come unto Christ.
Two weeks later, Ella was baptized, and now she is working on bringing the rest of her family into the Church.
Christmas that year was unique, and the joy I felt was unmistakable.

“I had wanted to tell others about the Book of Mormon since the day I found it when I was eight years old,” she says. “Now I felt I had to become a missionary.”
But she was only seventeen. Every year thereafter on her birthday, she asked her bishop if she was old enough yet to be called on a mission, but each year he told her she must wait until she was twenty-one. In the meantime, she taught Primary and Sunday School and continued to grow in her knowledge of the gospel.
Then—on the very day she turned twenty-one—her call came.
Sister Marilu Ramirez was prepared. A bright student, she was teaching elementary school even before finishing her university degree, and she carefully saved her earnings. By the time she received her call, she had saved up enough money to pay for her entire mission. At that point she gave up her job, with no assurance of finding one when she returned.
Her family was sure she was insane. The child who had wasted time and money on religious books was now throwing away a good job, all her savings, and eighteen months of her life. But once again, no amount of pressure made any difference.
Now on her mission, she prays for her family and writes them weekly.
On 24 January 1988, as her group is about to leave the Mexico City Missionary Training Center and enter their fields of labor, Sister Marilu Ramirez stands during a meeting to bear her testimony. Her jet black hair, pulled back and held in place with two blue hair clips, almost reaches her waist.
At the pulpit, she stands on a short stool in order to speak into the microphone. Her petite frame suggests that she might speak timidly, but her voice is powerful and her testimony is that of a mature disciple. “I have had to fight to get here,” she says with emotion, “and I have learned that without the Lord, I am nothing. But I have felt his infinite love for me, and I know in whom I have confided.”
The next day, as she meets her new mission president and his assistants, she again bears powerful witness of the Father’s love. “When I entered the temple for the first time a few days ago, I felt his Spirit and was overwhelmed by his love,” she says. “As I prayed to him, I asked, ‘Why do you love me so much?’ And I seemed to hear an answer: ‘Don’t you know I love all the world—all my children? I don’t want anyone to be lost.’ And I began to comprehend the great love he has for each one of us.” Her voice again fills with emotion. “I know that our Heavenly Father and his son Jesus Christ live and love us. I feel very honored to be a daughter of God and to serve him as a missionary.”
Sister Ramirez is currently teaching the gospel to non-members who come to the Mexico City Temple visitors’ center. In the evenings, she and her companion go out into the surrounding neighborhoods to teach families the gospel in their homes.
Like that eight-year-old child, the twenty-one year old missionary is still consumed with thoughts about God. And her cup, filled drop by drop when she read the pages of the Book of Mormon as a child, is now overflowing.

Hour after hour he rocks there, this beautiful little three-year-old stranger who is our son. Through the window the afternoon sun highlights his well-formed body and flawless features. Brothers and sisters run by, calling his name. He stares, riveted in his rhythmic rocking. Repeated attempts to hold him or share his world are stiffly rejected. … At night we lay him in bed, and our good night kisses are pushed away. … Half sleeping in the bedroom above, we hear the light switch being flicked on and off, on an off, by his tiny hand. Morning comes all too quickly, but he does not call or reach out for us. … We dress him and the cycle begins again. The English poet Alfred Tennyson unknowingly described our son Brian when he wrote, “He is so near and yet so far.”
As we watched our baby Brian develop, we grew uneasy with his unusual behavior. We were confused because he seemed so bright in some ways, and yet we could not reach him. His physical, social, and intellectual development were very irregular. Brian could hum the melody perfectly to “Softly Now the Light of Day” after hearing it only once, and yet he could not ask for a glass of milk. Even though he could undo latches and locks very rapidly, he had difficulty using a fork.
We also observed abnormalities in Brian’s responses to sensations. At one time he paid no attention to smells, and yet another time he would not taste any food without smelling it first. Sometimes oblivious to sudden loud noises such as the dropping of a cooking pot, at other times he could hear his father unwrapping a piece of candy in the next room. Similarly, Brian might exhibit no reaction to a hard bump on the head, but might arch his back as though burned when I touched him with my hand. I felt terribly frustrated when he would not allow me to comfort him at such times. I seemed only to add to his pain.
Our concern deepened with the passing months when Brian’s speech did not develop normally. When he talked, and he rarely did, he sounded very much like a robot, echoing back what other people had said but seldom expressing an original thought. Words were only meaningless collections of sounds to him.
Perhaps most frustrating to the family was Brian’s seemingly non-caring attitude toward others. He did not want to join in family activities, he did not respond to outreaches of brothers or sister, and he did not develop a respect for others’ property. Brian kept the family in a constant turmoil destroying mechanical equipment, tearing up books, and dropping things in our small fish aquarium. When he could find a screwdriver we had hidden for safety, he would use it on heating vents, door hinges, and electrical outlets. One day he managed to leave the house with a repairman’s screwdriver and had the taillights and rear view mirror removed from the repairman’s truck before the startled man could begin fixing the dishwasher!
It became necessary to have a lock on every door in the house to prevent him from destroying everything. Additional locks were installed on the outside doors to prevent him from running toward cars in the street. Unable to comprehend danger, he showed no change in expression as cars were suddenly brought to a halt to prevent hitting him. Heights also captivated him at one time, and we often found him standing on a second-story window ledge. Dealing with such frightening experiences daily left us exhausted and emotionally drained.
Looking back, we should have sought medical assistance much earlier; but it is difficult to see problems clearly when they develop slowly in a beautiful, seemingly “normal” little baby. He seemed like such a “happy” baby, never crying to be picked up. Later behavior problems were interpreted as an acute case of the “terrible twos,” the normal behavior of a developing two-year-old child. The slow speech was blamed on a premature birth and four older brothers and sisters who did all of Brian’s talking for him, while his inability to react socially with others was labeled an “independent streak” not uncommon in our family. We assumed that if we continued to love and care for him, he would somehow “grow out” of his problems.
Finally, when Brian turned three years old and the situation was still worsening, we sought medical help.
We went from expert to expert searching for a diagnosis. We heard Brain labeled “emotionally disturbed,” “abused,” and simply “a very unhappy little boy”—labels that were devastating to us because we loved and so desperately wanted to help our son. Other diagnoses of “mentally retarded,” “minimally brain damaged,” and “improperly developed nervous system,” were less shocking but no more helpful to us. Nothing seemed to fit, and no one had any specific suggestions for altering his behavior.
We had heard the term “autistic qualities” mentioned, so in desperation we attended a day-long autism workshop which we had read about in the newspaper. To our mingled relief and dismay, we agreed that Brian truly fit the characteristics and the symptoms of autism. We learned that autism is a lifelong developmental disability with 95 percent of its victims having to be placed in special care facilities. Our dreams of a mission and marriage for Brian suddenly disappeared as we realized the extremely limiting nature of this problem.
Even though this news was terribly discouraging, we were relieved to know at last the nature of his struggle. Feeling bewildered and alone in our situation, we took great comfort in meeting other parents of autistic children and sharing experiences with them. Their empathy and humor in examples of events similar to our own calmed our hurt spirits and made us realize we would not have to face this problem alone. Equally important, these parents offered us home care techniques, sources for written information, the names of doctors familiar with autism, and referrals to programs in the community designed to educate children like Brian.
Most significant, these parents made us feel better about ourselves. Once we met other parents of autistic children, we rapidly concluded that they were about as normal a group of individuals as we would find anywhere. These new friends, expressing their frustrations, fears and hopes, had feelings very similar to our own. Moreover, they seemed intelligent, compassionate, and levelheaded. This helped to remove any feelings of guilt that we had that we were somehow to blame for Brian’s condition.
We learned that there was no effective medical treatment for autism, but we were encouraged when we read of a certain kind of behavior therapy that had helped improve behavior in autistic children. However, we soon discovered that to enroll Brian in the only such program in the area would mean a wait of several years before he could start school.
In the meantime, my husband and I developed our own plan. We decided to provide a program at home until a placement in a school was possible. An understanding bishop gave me a prayerfully requested release as Relief Society president so my full energies could be focused on this challenge.
While persevering grandmothers babysat, I volunteered to work at the school for autistic children in order to gain some training as a therapist. Remodeling plans for our house halted, and money for new furniture was used to hire two therapists to work with Brian at home. The three of us worked in shifts, involving father and the other children where possible.
As Brian was taught the steps in paying attention, we were amazed at his progress and celebrated each little, hard-won success. This home approach was excellent for the immediate future because we were finally having positive interactions with Brian. However, in giving so much time and energy to Brian, we also realized that we must not neglect the other children.
Brian has now entered a school for autistic children, but our work with him at home is far from finished. Enthusiastic hopes have been replaced with more realistic thoughts of the future, and “flexibility” has become a motto. The class or techniques that work for him today may not be appropriate next month or next year. Undoubtedly, Brian will have extremely difficult teenage years, and he will never be “normal” like his brothers and sister. Nevertheless, he is developing his potential, and we all share the rewards of his progress.

During the recent open house of the Washington D.C. Temple, a member of the open house committee witnessed an insightful interchange as he escorted several prominent journalists through the temple. Somehow a young family became attached to this media tour. One reporter kept asking about the “journey” of a temple patron as he or she moves through the temple. He wanted to know if the temple journey is symbolic of the challenges in a person’s journey through life.
A young boy in the family picked up on the conversation. When the tour group entered an endowment room, the boy pointed to the altar, where people kneel to make covenants with God, and said, “Oh, that’s nice. Here is a place for people to rest on their temple journey.”
I doubt that the boy knew just how profound his observation was. He likely had no idea about the direct connection between making a covenant with God in the temple and the Savior’s stunning promise:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; … and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Although to some it may seem like the Church leaders are taking away our agency, they are really giving us more freedom if we choose to do as they say. One day, my friend was talking to me about her complicated “love life.” She had to deal with a lot of unnecessary stress because she had chosen not to wait until age 16 before dating. She felt very restrained in many ways that she wouldn’t have if she had waited. This friend told me, “You guys are so blessed! At church, when they tell you to wait until you’re 16, they mean it!” The more I thought about this, the more I realized she was right. Sometimes we don’t see the reason for things, but people who have been through it know a lot of things we don’t.Name withheld

During my junior year in high school, I was very involved with my drama club and was getting ready for an audition. There was only going to be one play that year, and I was auditioning for the lead role, so I worked really hard to get ready for the tryouts. As the day of the audition drew near, I felt more and more excited.
On a Sunday before my audition, my Young Women leader announced an upcoming temple trip. We would be going to the Manhattan New York Temple, which was unusual for our ward, because it was about three hours away. She told us that in the next few days, she would need to know who was planning on coming. Then she announced the date of the trip. My heart sank. It was the same day as my audition. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. If I went on the temple trip, I might not be able to audition to be in the play.
I know that going to the temple is important, and I always look forward to going on temple trips with my ward. I love feeling the Spirit and taking time to be out of the world. At the same time, I loved performing with my drama club and being a part of a show with my friends.
It took me longer than I expected to make my decision. At first, I decided to skip the temple trip and go to the audition instead. I convinced myself that because there was only one show that year and because there would be more temple trips, it would be OK to miss just one trip to the temple—I would just go to the next one. After I made that decision, I still felt conflicted. I prayed about it and was not convinced that I’d made the right choice. I decided to skip the audition and go on the temple trip. I finally felt at peace, and I knew that the Lord was happy with my decision.
After I told my parents that I’d decided to go to the temple, my dad called my director and explained the conflict. The director told my dad that he would work with me so I wouldn’t have to miss out on the show. When my dad told me the news, I was filled with joy. I would be able to go to the temple and participate in the show! I didn’t get the lead that year, but I did learn a valuable lesson: when we choose the right, we are blessed.